


Sherlock: The Irish Conundrum

by Blackthorn1972



Series: Sherlock: The Irish Conundrum [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Macabre, Murder Mystery, Other, Subtext
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackthorn1972/pseuds/Blackthorn1972
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of strange murders that indicate Moriarty's influence draws questions out of Sherlock's adventuresome past, and with every question answered, a bigger question arises.  Epic adventure ensues.  What you expect to happen may not, but then, it may...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Adventure of the Talking Head

Sherlock Holmes was about to walk into Barts morgue pathology lab in a foul mood. Mycroft had just ruined his day. Most of it, anyhow. 

As he stomped the two miles down Oxford street to St. Bartholomew’s, unable to scrounge the 10 quid for a taxi, he hammered out a text on his phone to his brother. “Thanks for ruining ATM card strip. Please send money currently unavailable. SH” 

Of course, Sherlock only had to show ID at a Lloyds TSB anywhere near Baker Street, and fill out a draft to get cash while the bank reissued his card. However, what was important was the principle. The principle was that Mycroft had just made his life very difficult, and Mycroft would pay him for the inconvenience. That, and his drivers license and passport were somewhere under a pile of papers back in the drawing room of 221B, where he would have to actually take the time to look for them. 

Tedious, he thought crossly, and doubled his pace, his brows furrowing deeply, the tail of his tweed overcoat flapping up behind his calves. The phone vibrated shortly thereafter. 

“Just being a good brother. MH”

There would be an envelope with 500 sterling left with Mrs. Hudson tonight with “Sorry, Mycroft” quickly scribbled on the outside. More than enough to get a taxi with a hungry John, just off his shift at the Barts NHS outpatient clinic, to yet another boutique restaurant, and passively apologise the hundredth time for a cooktop and kitchen table occupied by the ghoulish accouterments of his profession. 

It was not as if Sherlock genuinely cared about money. Thanks to his tedious brother, and the millions of pounds at his disposal, that was not an issue. But the dowdy, lovable, and badly decorated rooms at 221B were a point of his masculine pride in self-sufficiency, and meant more to his self respect, comforted by the well-ordered, well-earned tchotchkes and familiar shabbiness of an upbringing by middle-class intelligentsia.

As for rich bloody Mycroft, sod him, he thought bitterly.

The reason Sherlock’s ATM card was unusable, was because Mycroft had sent a SIM locator signal to Sherlock’s phone, which was a bit more powerful than the usual text signal or call, and it had de-magnetised his card. He had absentmindedly forgotten to put his phone in the other pocket of his overcoat. Being able to make ingenious deductions definitely does not make you superhuman or incapable of mistakes; this situation had happened twice before and made him curse himself repeatedly. And more angrily each time it happened. He was seething now. 

Mycroft did this on occasion to keep tabs on the well-being of his brother, also to cross-reference any known drugs locations in less respectable areas of town. This had not been necessary for over a decade, but old habits die hard. His brother ruthlessly protected his hard earned social standing by being an insufferably nosy prick. 

To let him know this, Sherlock made the motion of always smoking in his presence, now that the government officially frowned on it, and Mycroft had quit. Yet, Mycroft did not admonish him, mostly because he did not want the immediate dressing down of a sharp-witted fat joke delivered by his 37-year-old baby brother. And, Mycroft also occasionally enjoyed an illicit cigarette. It was a mutual understanding, but personal space was otherwise always in lack of supply between them.

Mycroft was infuriatingly nosy regarding Sherlock’s appetite for troublemaking for the sake of entertainment, and for good reason. Getting criminal scumbags in a good hot-tempered bother was just Sherlock’s cup of tea, and getting them to act out was his idea of pure victory. The internet calls them trolls, but Sherlock took it to a dangerous level, just doing it to chuff himself in real life and avoid boredom.

Mycroft was the high success in the upper levels of government, and Sherlock the coattail black sheep, or so Mycroft seemed to present it, and it drove Sherlock round the bend. This time around, however, Sherlock had other and more important things on his mind. 

Like murder. 

In specific, two murders the previous night, in the old Irish section of London, in two separate housing estates. One an old man, the other a young man, both living in unremarkable flats, but surrounded by cartons and cartons of branded cigarettes, ashtrays bursting to full, fingers stained from smoking, both simply falling dead seemingly of spontaneous asphyxiation with no ligature marks. 

At the first flat, the old man’s body was sealed down with health and safety strip and plastic around it to prevent contamination. There was little to do regarding the corpse until it got to Barts, so he went about inspecting additional evidence.

Both of the victims were on public benefits, but their flats, one dingy and the other filthy, denoted an otherwise middle class standard. Even though their wallets were empty, obviously to make it look like a robbery, the cash section of their wallets had been stretched to bursting. Both of them had nothing but post office account cards where they got their benefits in, so Sherlock had made a deduction and quickly followed a well-trodden dirty section of carpet and floor in each of their flats to hiding spots full of money. There was over 120 grand in each nook, which was unheard-of for your average scumbag drug pusher. The old man kept his stash behind a false wall in his sink cupboard, the young man in the roof breezeway just behind the immersion tank.  
They both wanted for nothing, but in this day and age it was difficult to spend without anyone noticing. And these two obviously didn’t want anyone to notice until they had enough to get to Spain.

Spanish language CDs and holiday pamphlets were at their flats. It was more than obvious they were planning a great escape, but to two separate dream locations- Tenerife, for the young man, and Barcelona for the old man. 

Obviously the two murders were connected, but since they were not family and did not have official work together, he would have to find out who saw them together, and where. And he knew by the smell of brackish harbour mud on their shoes that he wouldn’t have to look too far to get to the London shipyard storage dock.

The cigarettes were awful. Sherlock made a mental note to add knockoff Marlboros from Eastern Europe to his reference collection of tobacco ash, because their smell was distinctly rank. Worse than bodegas, which Sherlock hated due to being occasionally caught out in foreign locations by police inspectors fond of Fidel’s weapon of choice.

Normally, Lestrade wouldn’t have rung Sherlock on the deaths of two part-time cigarette smugglers who very likely had stolen from their employer in some fashion. But the cigarettes were from Eastern Europe, there had been a lot of them, and both men were Irish. Lestrade did not like where this was going, and wanted to see if Sherlock could activate his Homeless Network to sniff out a bit more. Especially since whoever murdered these two men apparently didn’t care about the enormous amount of money they had socked away.

They died because of something else, thought Sherlock. They were in someone’s way, or saw something they shouldn’t have. This was a fairly easy deduction, but something else caught his attention: identical rally driver certificates for both men at both flats, signed by the same instructor.

Here’s our big connection, thought Sherlock. Bigger than money, holidays, or smoking habits. The difference was, the old man had carelessly folded his certificate tightly and put it in his wallet. The young man had hidden his entirely, in the same spot where he had hidden his money: through the ceiling access and up under the immersion tank.

But for one special reason, Sherlock also rolled that certificate and stuffed it into his inside coat pocket before he shouted down to Lestrade from the access ladder that he had seen money. For now, thought Sherlock, these murders need to remain unrelated on this level until my questions are answered.

Sherlock then put on his forensic examination gloves to inspect the victim and noticed that the sheet over him was again sealed to the floor with double sided health and safety strip, meant to keep in contaminants, biological or otherwise. 

He gave Lestrade an inquisitive but annoyed look. 

“No touching my good man.” said Lestrade. “It’s for your safety, for good reason.”

“Well. That’s a waste of my potential.” Sherlock sounded cross, and crosser still that John was not here asking more questions, keeping him on the ground and pulling the rank of expertise.

“I’ll give you the reason in a minute.” Lestrade went to the equipment station to open a large locked box, wrapped in plastic.

This is certainly not as interesting as 300 live ducks suddenly appearing in someone’s back garden, he thought. But he bitterly regretted not jumping at the new email he got from the British Museum in Cardiff, instead of doing this. 

The museum had lost a very important ancient artefact, and reports of unearthly screaming and disembodied drumming were reported outside Merthyr-Tydfyl after midnight last Saturday. He had emailed the curator back apologetically letting him know that he was being currently engaged by Scotland Yard, but that it sounded fascinating, and meanwhile the curator should lock the most important artifacts in the local bank vault until he could inspect them. The curator sounded on edge and worried on the phone later when Sherlock had to confirm his interest, but he agreed to help make for a delay.

I’d love to bother with that one as soon as possible, thought Sherlock. The IRA is boring and foul. Slow attrition, American propaganda, kitchen chemical bombs, smuggling rings, and now politics, were bloody tedious as ever. I’d rather stab myself in the perineum with a metal fencepost than waste my time chasing down alcoholic psychopaths. That’s MI-bloody-5’s job. But he stayed quiet, due to the questions he had simmering over the rally certificates that he needed answers for.

Sherlock was able to see the soles of this man’s shoes peeking from under the sheet, and huffed internally with delight. The local politically questionable boozer between the two disconnected estates, (thankfully there was only one left) was a well-decorated but raucous hole with tolerable pub grub called the Fenian Inn, and this young man had sawdust from its floor on his shoes. For a man who didn’t work in carpentry, it pointed fairly obviously to his sawdust-employing local, and Sherlock knew the place by name as his Homeless Network easily reached there.

He also remained quiet about this detail.

Then, Lestrade did something new just before Sherlock left the second scene. He pulled out an evidence bag from the plastic bagged, chemical hazard labeled lockbox with a set of long forceps, and in it were two business cards on smart parchment stock. On both were one letter:

-M-

Sherlock’s eyes lit up like ice blue fire. He instinctively reached out to grab the triple wrapped bag. Lestrade jerked it back. “Don’t come near these, Sherlock. They’re the murder weapons, both coated in sodium cyanide. We’re lucky that the discrepancy between time of death two days ago and the odd lack of insects led to noticing the bitter almond smell. You can thank Phil Anderson for that.” 

Anderson, Sherlock’s devoted pain-in-the-hole Number One Fan and Top Critic, was in his white forensics onesie. He looked up from scraping blood off the kitchen counter into a labeled plastic jar, and haughtily cocked his head with a disdainful look of acknowledgment. “Obviously my lack of smoking habit gave me the ability.” he went on casually. “Amazing I could detect it in this fog of filth.” He went on scraping.

Sherlock sneered internally and seethed momentarily at Anderson. He sidled over to the counter and looked at the blood. It had been shed over a week ago from an unrelated incident, and the beer can pop top responsible for the man’s nick to the thumb was even on the counter with a small bit of blood on the edge. Sherlock was amazed that nobody noticed it, so he reminded Anderson that the blood was completely unrelated to the current crime scene, and was caused by a rogue, criminal aluminium can a week before this even happened.

Anderson looked decidedly disgusted, while Sherlock glimmered with deductive self-righteousness. Not being the one with the pleasure of finding something as interesting and dangerous as cyanide calling cards, with his nose no less, massively got his goat. So he whipped out a zinger for Anderson in a low, quiet, voice. 

“I’m not certain if my smoking habit has dulled my sense of smell. But smoking dulls my wits just enough not to stab the witless to death.” he smiled. Anderson shrugged, still disgusted, and refused to look up at Sherlock. Sherlock whirled round on his heels and brightened his tone for Lestrade. “Ring me day after tomorrow, Gary. I have some thinking to do. Also, get me anything else you can get on those cards as long as they don’t kill your lab techs. …Well, all except one.” Anderson ignored the barb silently. “…I’ll be in touch.” 

“Fine, Sherlock. …Som’ing else as well,” Lestrade clipped in his warm, gravelly cockney voice.

“What?” Sherlock wheeled round as he was lifting the crime scene tape and stalking out the door of the flat.

“IT’S GREG,” Lestrade grinned as Sherlock grunted and left. He added “…you silly tit.” after Sherlock was out of earshot. Anderson snorted. “Really, for the ‘undredth time.” Lestrade chuckled in exasperation.

“I HEARD THAT.” barked a Queen’s-English baritone halfway down the walkway of flats as he walked to the main road to hail a cab. But for an egocentric dramatist, he hadn’t sounded that particularly upset. 

That was the night before, while John Watson had been engaged in catching-up hours for the outpatient clinic, thanks to his deliciously bad habit of engaging in adventures with Sherlock. A gigantic wave of summer holiday norovirus patients had just bowled over the Barts ER at midnight, and John had regrettably left Sherlock to entertaining Lestrade on his own. 

This put Sherlock in a morose mood, without his usual sounding board and best friend. After coming in at 4 a.m., John then spent most of the morning sleeping while Sherlock paced the drawing room in his dressing gown, muttering to himself, frustrated that he was alone drinking Mrs. Hudson’s morning tea. Twenty minutes of tearing out Brahms on his violin at 10 AM did not have any effect on waking John, a lump under his duvet upstairs, so he went on and added “Knockoff brand Polish cigarette ash” to his “Science of deduction” website’s tobacco ash section. 

He was also incredibly on edge, wondering when he would get Moriarty’s game invite, if at all. It was only an M…it could be a copycat. His network markers were all silent. He flinched inside, thinking of copycat arch-criminals wasting his time vying for attention, when far more interesting cases were always afoot. This is why he did not care much for fame. Of course, John cared for it even less.

“John, is my teacup on the fireplace?” he absentmindedly asked while staring down his website entry over interwoven hands. No reply emanated from the ugly orange lounge, and its grey tartan lap blanket where John would normally have been digesting a ridiculously awful tabloid and drinking tea. But tabloids were also the source of a good bit of their odder case material, so John had the job of maintaining his awful habit for the good of their entertainment and profession.

This is rubbish, he thought. Stay upstairs sleeping John, I don’t bloody care. He shuffle-stomped to the bath in a huff with his curly black hair cheekily bouncing behind him, showered, shaved, dressed and threw on his overcoat and scarf. He whipped out his phone and pocketed his leather wallet that had been sitting on the dining-now-blogging table. “Going to Barts lab.” He texted. “Let me know work hours, IOU dinner. SH” He slipped the phone into the wrong coat pocket, flew down the stairs, and then popped out of the black lacquered doorframe of 221B like a smart, curly-headed cork. He stomped his way down to the Lloyds ATM two blocks away for cab money. 

Just then, John wandered downstairs grizzled and yawning to find a cold tea service and no Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had gone off to meet a friend at the cinema. Not being proud, or a tea mad aficionado, he shuffled into the kitchen and committed tea treason by microwaving the pot for two minutes, and sitting back with a hair-raising cuppa that had steeped for over three hours. He tossed it back in three gulps, woke up promptly, gave his silvering ginger head a good scratch, and made a beeline for the shower. It was 11:45 and he wanted to be in at work for 3 or 4 hours of paperwork duty.

Sherlock headed for the ATM. The plan did not last long. A prolonged buzz emanated from his phone. Thinking it was set on vibrate, he pulled it out, but there were no text messages. His mood instantly sank. Mycroft. I’ll bet my card is banjaxed. The ATM agreed with him, and he bent forward in hopeless existential rage, teeth and eyes clenched.

“aaaAARRRRRGGH!” Sherlock raised his hands to his head and clasped his temples. Then he noticed that the familiar Westminster residents were out lunching and mingling, and walking their teacup dogs. People were looking at him with puzzled expressions.

Sherlock breathed, straightened, smoothed his scarf, cleared his throat, pocketed his phone, and began walking the 2 miles to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital morgue. His mood was temporarily too foul to wait for the London bus, or take the underground. People: no.

When he got to the coroners back entrance at Barts, Sherlock discovered that the ID strip on his hospital authorisation card, in his wallet just behind his ATM card, also wouldn’t work at the employee entrance. He tried it twice and growled on the third attempt. But he held his temper in and thought about buzzing the door button, and the ribbing he would get from Molly Hooper for the explanation he’d have to give. 

Fortunately, at that moment, the coroners van got in from the primary investigation of a double homicide at different addresses in Cricklewood. Sherlock simply followed in the morgue attendants through the double doors by the entrance, and made his way to pathology.

Sherlock put his coat and scarf in his usual locker just outside the pathology lab doors, and exchanged it for a fresh folded lab coat from the scrub tubs. He rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands to the elbows in the scrub station, shrugged his coat on, and sidled into the pathology lab to see Molly in a plastic mask, putting on the hazard jacket. 

She looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. “Don’t go near the tables, Sherlock! There’s cyanide in today. I don’t bloody believe it. They’ve actually got a wall up round the whole autopsy room.”

Sherlock casually stole one of her custard cream biscuits from next to her teacup, which she would not be finishing for several hours at this stage. He munched it and picked up the coroners report. 

“Believe it. I was on them last night. I was amazed their smoking habits didn’t kill them first. And I smoke. …Occasionally.”

“But how does someone get their hands on cyanide in England?” Molly bagged her feet with double scrubs and put on a rubber glove to her elbows, and then another on top of it. “Unless they made it here.”

“Unlikely. Too expensive.” said Sherlock, mouth full of biscuit. “But it’s easy enough to transport if you have the nerve to do it. A bit tricky though.” Scenarios flashed through his mind of a multiplicity of ways and means to transport crystalline cyanide into Britain, such as a wax matrix in a fake lipstick, or a filled shampoo bottle in the packed baggage, nonchalantly triple bagged. He curled his lip and wrinkled his nose. “Not a job I’d like having, if you ask me.”

“Want mine?” she added dryly, snapping down the edges of her hazmat suit.

He picked up her tea, gave it a good gulp and nabbed the other custard cream. “Be sure to give them a good wash down as soon as you take the skin cultures, then I’ll be in to inspect the secondary details. Anything I might have missed last night.” He took another gulp of her tea and Molly rolled her eyes. She snatched the coroners report clipboard out of his hands and stomped away through the PVC curtains at the end of the lab leading to the main autopsy room.

Well, it’ll be three hours prepping these lads at least, thought Sherlock. Time for a meeting. He shrugged his lab coat back off, set it by his microscope station, gulped down the remainder of Molly’s tea, binned the cup and left to find John. He was due to be in work by now, for a few hours of paperwork after yesterday’s ER assistance, and then they would be free for the evening. 

But that was no reason not to go bother him during lunch. Sherlock was a professional at bothering people, and an appointment for a discussion with the one man who didn’t mind being bothered by him was just what began to lift his mood a little. 

Sherlock whipped out his phone. “We have a case. Helping SY find killer. Criminal scumbag tedium, but involves cyanide. Looks interesting. Postmans Park in 5 minutes? SH”

John Watson had just left the taxi on Little Britain to make his way to the outpatient clinic on Bartholomew Close. His phone went off, and he stood and visibly sighed with an “ugh”. He would be in for his paperwork in 5 minutes on time. But as always he would be a bit late, thanks to Sherlock Holmes, so this was never, ever to happen. He mentally shrugged and made his way down toward Postmans Park. The truth was, he genuinely did not mind.

His phone went off again. “Bring tea if convenient. Morgue tea is rotten. SH” John looked up and rolled his eyes. He had just passed the coffee shop. He turned around and went in.

John hesitated quietly with the tea tray while walking up the park footpath. Sherlock was parked nonchalantly in the same exact bench where Mike Stamford had met his old friend John Watson during his lunch hour a number of years ago, and told him that another acquaintance using the Barts morgue pathology lab was in need of a flatmate. So many years ago it seems, thought John. He quietly grinned to himself, looked down and sighed at the thought of such a world of history and breathless adventure between then and now. 

Sherlock was hawkishly gazing in the opposite direction, bolt upright as usual, scanning his environment, hands folded in his lap, curls blowing in the light breeze, jaw muscles clenching and relaxing as his mind worked. His head had not yet turned toward John, standing still about 50 feet away. John started walking again toward the bench, and Sherlock turned his head and gazed toward John on a smooth, owl-like swivel. John sat down. Sherlock wordlessly picked a cup from the tray and checked his tea for the requisite extra milk and sugar. 

Check. “Thank you.”

“You practise that one, then?” John chuckled and squinted upward at his statuesque companion. He knew Sherlock had made a character leap of atypical gratitude.

Sherlock sighed, and answered with his slight cockeyed smile and familiar baritone. “My consideration is well earned, John.” His usual flat tone brightened on describing last night’s murder scenes. “Meanwhile I saw two murders last night. Cyanide. Something you shouldn’t have missed, just for the reference.”

“Cyanide! That’s mad.” John was shocked; such a toxic substance was as rare in England as polonium. “Did the corpses have the characteristic lividity and bitter almond smell?”

“Smell, yes. Lividity, no. They were actually quite pale. Now I’ll be more interested in the toxicology report.”

“How was it delivered?” asked John, sipping his tea.

“Parchment business card with an ‘M’ printed on it and nothing else, hidden underneath the back shirt collars of both of them.” said Sherlock ominously.

“You don’t bloody think…” said John worriedly, his heart jumping into his mouth.

“Not sure. I’ve had no calls, no warnings, no indications. My network picked nothing up. It’s confusing, so I’ll just keep my eyes open for now.”

John breathed in, then out slowly, and started to relax. “I wonder how they acquired the internal dose then, if any.” he said, and cleared his throat.

“You wonder, indeed. I’m questioning if that was how they died. The cards were meant for the investigating authorities. Obviously.” Sherlock stared ahead at the oak trees in the park, placidly shimmering in the increasing sunshine. It was rapidly warming that afternoon and approaching 30 degrees, so his shirtcuffs were still up and he had foregone his familiar overcoat. However, being Sherlock, he still had a buttoned waistcoat on over his shirt, belt, and ironed trousers. 

He sipped his tea again and brightened his tone. “Meanwhile, I have a plan for this evening. How does pub grub sound? Shepherds pie, chips, that sort of thing.” He looked over at John, eyebrow raised. His curious vocal tone quickly indicated that they would be on the job, so to speak. Or, at least, working up to one.

John’s eyebrows raised. Sherlock was fond of boutique restaurants, the kind that served salads, and the typical working-class fish and chip fare seemed a bit gritty for his preferences. But he would always surprise him at odd moments, and John loved a proper British Sunday roast, though he wouldn’t tell Sherlock. That fare he usually had out alone to keep Sherlock from rolling his eyes, but Sherlock would always annoyingly detect the smell of malt vinegar in John’s clothes and complain about it back at the flat. So of course, he was surprised.

“Yeah, all right.” He cocked his head to one side in bewilderment. “Pub grub? When was the last time I saw you in a pub?”

“The last time I drank enough to realise I shouldn’t be in one. Fermented grapes are bad enough.” said Sherlock with a sniffing grimace. “And that was to make you happy.” He sounded positively doleful. “However…you are required to enjoy a drink this evening. I will be playing my violin.”

“You? With an audience? You don’t do audiences.” chuffed John, becoming progressively more entertained. 

“I will tonight, but I’ll be in the background. And jigs and reels aren’t exactly Brahms.” snorted Sherlock. That having been said, he had to remind himself to practise traditional flourishes and gracenotes in his bow technique, as they were certainly not familiar ground for a long while, and often far more technical than a classical sustained vibrato. 

“Irish music. That’s a new one.” John had never heard Sherlock fiddling out Irish tunes. 

Sherlock sighed. “It was a phase.” …and that’s all he said.

12 years ago he recalled a blissful 3 weeks of summer in Kerry playing traditional music almost nightly, until he uncovered a hashish ring coming in through the local harbour via Spanish fishermen. As the rules in Ireland were different, he hedged his bets with the local Fine Gael political party office, instead of the police. That ten minute sit down with the local campaign officer running for TD resulted in a gigantic haul of cash and product for the Criminal Assets Bureau and Gardai. It was a very smart move, though he had to exit stage left immediately and be on a plane from Shannon the next day to be certain about his safety. 

Sherlock was sad about leaving the incredible musical assortment of traveling virtuosos in the town where he stayed that summer, but the locals found him a bit tiring and grating, if his music pleasant. Angering the wrong individual in such a “who-you-know” culture would otherwise eventually prove very dangerous, and Mycroft was just a little too far away to get backup within 10 minutes.

He had seen later online back home in London that the man he talked to had gone on to win his section of Kerry as a TD in the Irish legislative Dail, rousting out the Sinn Fein TD, something about which the remains of the Provisional IRA was obviously not happy. Sherlock quietly hoped that the IRA wouldn’t know who he was beyond London tabloids, or especially who his brother was, which would be bad enough.

“Is country and western your next foray?” John grinned, interrupting Sherlock’s quick reflection.

“Not very likely. I dislike cowboy hats.”

“That’s relieving. So do I.” John smiled and sipped his tea. “So I suppose it’s tweed hats and knit jumpers tonight.”

“I’ll stick with the hat. It’s not as ugly as the deerstalker, and cable jumpers look better on short people.” John rolled his eyes and sighed. “On me they look like…” Sherlock looked thoughtful. I look like a Kerry fisherman off the boat, he thought. His creamy pallor and black hair nailed him for a man from the southwest of Ireland. This was why he preferred suits, to avoid working class entanglements and to be taken seriously in London. “…Actually,” he said, “I’ll go with a cardigan tonight. And corduroys.”

John leaned backward and stared at Sherlock incredulously, with his usual bewildered smile. “You really are going outside your comfort zone, aren’t you?”

“Everything has its purpose.”

What Sherlock did not mention, was that while he was on that nice long holiday in Kerry 12 years ago, he had also learned how to drive a turbo rally car down a six foot wide back boreen at 120 km an hour, without ditching on hairpin curves.

Mycroft had told him to find another hobby, in order to stay out of trouble. He even paid for the instructor, who was shocked by Sherlock’s immediate skill. ...Coincidentally, the same instructor whose name was scribbled at the bottom of the younger victim’s cert, in his coat inside pocket back at Barts morgue.

Game on.  
\--

At 3 PM, after having John buy him a salad for lunch, Sherlock wandered back into the pathology lab to find the crew still busy with contamination procedure and skin sampling. He poked his curly head in through the PVC zippered barriers and asked Molly how long they’d be. The team barked in concern, but he didn’t step in further. She shooed him off with “Hour, tops.” He zipped up the barrier and sat in the pathology lab to read about cyanide toxicology at the Internet station.

Of course, with Sherlock, being entertained doesn’t last long. After ten minutes of scanning information, he got bored quickly, and looked round the lab. Under a protective cover was the generously donated head of a well-lived older gentleman with drooping jowls and closed eyes, on a refrigeration tray. 

The mouth was open about two centimeters. Molly had been preparing it for the introductory neurosurgery week of undergraduate gross anatomy at London School of Medicine, just adjacent to Barts. 

Sherlock figured it would be kind to have him tell a joke one last time, if he had told any during his lifetime. Few possess such an entirely ghoulish sense of humour as Sherlock Holmes, but when he decides to have a laugh, usually at your expense, the only option is to take it well and move on. 

He got up and casually looked round the lab for clean airway tubing, and found a still-packaged tracheal airway vent. He attached the tubing to the vent, put on a pair of fresh gloves, gently lifted the man’s head and inserted the tracheal vent firmly into the open tracheal hole at the bottom of the neck. He then quietly set the head back in position, casually trailed the tubing to the other side of the table, and sat back at the microscope station, waiting for Molly to finish and come back into the lab. This would make the wait worthwhile. He went back to scanning the internet.

After about half an hour, an exhausted Molly stepped out of the PVC containment unit and zipped off her suit, tossing everything inside the zippered door for incineration to pick up. 

“Right, the containment unit will be off in about ten minutes when the health and safety get in. Then they’re all yours, Sherlock.” 

“Very good. I’m curious to find everything I can.” he said cheerfully. More cheerfully than usual, but Molly hadn’t noticed.

She sighed, took the report paperwork to her desk station to fill out, and sat on the stool just opposite the center lab table where the head was sitting. She hadn’t noticed the cover was off. All she noticed, was that Sherlock had not replaced her cup of tea and custard creams, which would have made her a little cross if she hadn’t known him so well.

Fortunately, in knowing the rate of the coagulation of saliva after death, and also knowing this gentleman had died just all of 48 hours ago, Sherlock figured the soft palate certainly wasn’t too sticky to separate from the back of the throat and vibrate the vocal cords. He covertly lifted the tubing to his mouth and blew firmly.

He was not disappointed by the result.

“hngaaaaaaaa” said the head in a toneless, but higher tonality than Sherlock’s familiar voice. Molly looked up and round the lab, puzzled.

“Did you hear something, Sherlock?”

Sherlock had hidden the tubing and placed it down. He looked up from the laptop. “Hm? Nope.” he glanced down deadpan and continued looking at his laptop screen.

Molly looked somewhat perplexed, and sat back down to scribble things. Sherlock grinned, and blew again.

“…gknaaaaaaaaa” said the head. Molly threw her own head up, whirled around, and said to Sherlock, “You had to have heard that.” She got up to check outside the doors of the pathology lab. Sherlock had gotten red round the ears and looked like he was about to explode, but he swallowed it deadpan as soon as Molly turned toward him. He casually looked up and shrugged.

She put her hands on her hips and gazed around the lab, looking for an explanation.

Just as her gaze fell on her neurology prep for Queen Mary College gross anatomy, Sherlock slipped the tubing into his mouth behind his laptop screen, and blew hard.

“GNGAAAAAAA” said the head.

Molly screamed so loudly, that the orderlies came bolting down the hall from 40 yards away. Over it they heard the inexplicable sound of Sherlock laughing…the rarest of all noises.

She laughed as well, when she could finally catch her breath. She didn’t tell the orderlies what had happened, just through gasps of combined shock and laughter that she had forgotten to cover her gross anatomy prep and had surprised herself. Sherlock was bursting deadpan behind his hand, and shrugged, ears redder than Christmas. 

These diamond-rare moments of silly insanity were the reason why Molly had a soft spot for Sherlock. It was too shockingly unorthodox and disrespectful, at least to normal people. 

People who weren’t Sherlock Holmes.


	2. The Pub Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go in disguise to a local tavern frequented by less than savory individuals. The less than savory individuals take immediate notice. Successful, they leave, gaining a tail. Some Johnlock feels.

Sherlock waited for Molly’s nerves to calm down while she picked up the papers she had dropped in shock. Sherlock’s practical joke had been done in immensely bad taste. After asking if she was all right, (John had told him he needed to do this if he intended further practical jokes in future) he shrugged his jacket back on, and put on a mask and pair of eye protection goggles. He took two elbow length latex gloves and put them on, smearing them thoroughly in petroleum gel in case of any projectile spray. Both bodies were starting to bloat, and he did not want to be in the way, but his job was not that of the autopsy team in later at 8PM. 

His job was to deduce whatever clues remained on 2 freshly washed bodies, although toxicology would answer his biggest questions in 48 hours. Both men were pale, indicating that they may not have, indeed probably had not died of cyanide poisoning. Both were unremarkable, mostly unmarked, and had shown no signs of struggle. The older man had advanced renal enlargement and had lost about a third of his teeth, most of them being crowned. But Sherlock recalled that both men had vomited just outside the doorways to their respective flats, and only had time to set keys on their sitting room tables before they fell down in a heap and stopped breathing. So the poisoning would have been delivered outside, where it was much more difficult to deliver something that lethal without detection.

The older man had LOVE and HATE tattooed on his knuckles along with an assortment of scummy Mountjoy jail house smudges up and down his arms. Classy, thought Sherlock. The younger man, about 26, who had the sawdust on his shoes, had no tattoos and clean, perfect teeth. Family approval, thought Sherlock. Respectable? He picked up the toe tag. 

“DONAL UI’ FLAITHEARTIG  
B 1989.2.11  
NIN 867735417”

Yes, traditional spelling of Donald O’Flaherty. This family was probably from the genteel Gaeltacht area in the southwest of Ireland, obviously not West Belfast republicans pushing a linguistic and cultural agenda for political reasons. Gaeltacht families were usually long established, respectable, and politically moderate. Why was this respectable young man at the Fenian, wondered Sherlock. Well, John and I may find out tonight.  
\---

The taxi left John and Sherlock off in a quiet cobbled side street in Cricklewood, surrounded by smart landscaping and pleasant looking storefronts, closed for the evening. It certainly wasn’t as scummy as John had feared given the etiquette and instruction Sherlock had quietly given him in the taxi to fade in as local. But the banter was clearly very loud inside, and a jukebox of some kind was playing Irish music, badly. 

“Time to do some listening, John. My advantage here is distinct. As a musician, I am required neither to drink nor talk to anyone. I’ll be both playing, and hearing everything.”

“Sounds like a perfect position, for a six foot antisocial enigma.” said John dryly. “What do I get to do?”

“Order anything you like for dinner. I’m on the job.” said Sherlock, his eye suddenly sparkling with curious anticipation. He was carrying his violin case and had slapped a shamrock sticker onto it for good measure. He had a black felt paddy cap on, and was dressed in a maroon cardigan, blue and maroon tartan flannel shirt shot through with yellow, brown belt, blue corduroys, and light brown brogues. All John had to wear was his usual favourite cable knit jumper and shirt collar, and jeans, and he fit right in, merely donning Sherlock’s other brown paddy cap.

Since they both had perfect eyesight, they both had non-prescription frames for the evening. Sherlock wore a set of Franklin frames, and John in tortoiseshell Buddy Hollys. The disguise was complete, more or less. Time to start listening.

They squeezed into the tiny front entrance and found a hot, raucous bar full of patrons with mixed accents; half Irish, half London. Luke Kelly was roaring out of the jukebox and pints of Guinness were passing back and forth. Sherlock went to find a corner near the front window, occupied by a knot of overly made up women together for a night out. He shyly asked if he could take the corner for the evening, and his looks guaranteed the women were entirely too charmed to do so, clearing a spot for him immediately on the worn tartan bench. John had ordered fish and chips and gotten two half pints of Guinness at the bar, and brought the glasses over to Sherlock’s round table. 

Sherlock grimaced at the black mud and white foam that had been set in front of him, and grimaced at John. John broke out into a grin and offered it to him silently in the din of babble, pushing the glass toward him. Sherlock preferred cracking his case open immediately, taking out his bow, fiddle, cloth and rosin, and closed the case to set at his feet. He generously twisted his flashing bowstring in a cloth and a lump of rosin, up and down, looking intent and serious, and curtly set the violin (now fiddle) under his chin. 

He bent his wrist forward, back stiff as a board, bolt upright, and then leaned into the tune. 

And from Sherlock’s fiddle came the music of angels. No scratching Beethoven, no tired Bach, no half-hearted Brahms, no confused Vivaldi, no waltz missing a half-step and going west instead of south. The imperfections that James Moriarty found a point of humiliation for Sherlock had vanished. 

Replacing them, came a perfect stature and form, his bowstrings flashing into effortless flourishes and gracenotes, like a shoal of herring under a rolling ocean swell. His face was that of a statue while his wrist shot up and down like the piston of a perfectly oiled machine. Yet the sound that came from him had a warmth that John had not once heard from his violin in the years he had generally ignored his playing at 221B. Sherlock’s brow was as hard as granite, his curls and locks glowing like deep mahogany embers under his cap, in the light of the soft pub lamp above their heads. 

The tune was “The Maid Behind the Bar”, one of the most recognizable session tunes in Ireland, but it made no difference to John. He had never heard it before, and never heard anything like it coming out of Sherlock. By the time Sherlock had done 3 repetitions and set the turn in the tune from the key of D down to C for the Red Haired Lass, John was grinning stupidly, and half his Guinness was gone.

The entire bar was also completely silent, all eyes on Sherlock. The reason was simple. Good session musicians don’t visit republican bars at all. The traditional music society frowns on venues that bandy politics for good reason: Ireland is a deeply divided nation on all fronts. So when a decent traditional musician nods at Republicanism, they become wanted for all the wrong reasons; whether they knew what they were doing, or were merely being nice, or worse, completely naïve.

But John didn’t know this. All that John knew as Sherlock turned the tune slowly to “Si Bheag, Si Mhor” by Turlough O’Carolan, was that for those few minutes of grace, he did not know Sherlock at all. There was no familiar cynicism or bitter sardonic distance. Just a bursting, aching heart behind those notes that overflowed through the strings of his fiddle, and he had only heard once before on his ill-fated wedding day to Mary Morstan. 

The whole bar was silent as a stone, and John breathed deeply and closed his eyes as a tear rolled down his cheek, not once noticing the silence. The last note ended with an extended vibrato, and for a full count of five, the silence extended until Sherlock set the fiddle down on the rosin-cloth on his leg, and looked up.

The entire bar erupted with applause. So much for anonymity, thought John. I wonder what our next plan is going to be.

“Just go with it,” said Sherlock, reading John’s face for the thousandth time. “This could be the better option.”

“I hope you’re right.” said John, finally preparing to tuck into fish and chips, sans the vinegar at Sherlock’s request. Sherlock took a few minutes to shake a slew of hands thrust at him in thanks, acknowledging with a curt nod, and prepared for the next solo set. He took a long draught from his half pint of Guinness. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he remembered, though still not his thing. But it bode him well to look convincing, he thought.

Just before playing again, Sherlock pointed at a pile of business cards and at least ten upside down empty shot glasses on the table, denoting drinks for him (and John, by proxy) that were already paid for. John reached for a shot glass, and Sherlock quickly shook his head and pointed again at the business cards. He leaned over and whispered in John’s ear. “Look for O’Flaherty.” 

John cracked his second gigantic fillet of pollack, hungrily sucked fish grease off his thumb, then scrunched his napkin to dry his fingers. Thumbing through the cards quickly, he found a local used car dealership called Flaherty’s Motors. It was the only card among Kellys, Jamesons, O’Dowds, Reids and Mcdonoughs that qualified, but the owner of the venue had an oddly spelled name. He raised his eyebrows and held it up for Sherlock’s inspection. Sherlock looked at it, then turned it over. 

WAKE MONDAY 9PM TO SUNRISE  
WILL PAY

His usual sardonic smile returned. He mouthed the word “bingo” at John, then slipped the card into his pocket and calmly returned to the music for another set to give John time to finish eating. Afterward, Sherlock casually sidled outside for a smoke. Five minutes later, John even more casually sidled out with his violin case in hand, giving one last woeful gaze to a table full of the unfulfilled potential of free drink. As soon as John was out the door they took off walking, marching in step, silently congratulating themselves on their cleverness.

“That was amazing.” said John, smiling, after half a block of silence. 

“It’s not often that a lead walks right into my hands,” said Sherlock in agreement, “so I think we should ring this man and jump on it as soon as we get to a taxi. I have a feeling this is a very short lived offer.” Sherlock’s hair on the back of his neck was up. He suspected being followed. He knew there were eyes in the back of the pub.

“No, I already know you’re amazing being able to deduce being in the right place at the right time”, said John. “I’m used to that with you. It’s your playing I’m talking about. I honestly have never heard you play like that.”

“Probably won’t again.” sighed Sherlock, and let it lie for another 50 yards while they walked to the main road for a taxi. 

Then he stopped for a second. “…You really liked it?”

“I have never heard you play like that.” repeated John. “It’s a whole new you I’ve never seen before. Or old you I never knew, I suppose. When did you learn it?”

“A long time ago, John. I might even do it again, but I’m not sure.” he began to walk again, a bit more slowly.

“You just did it!”

“Because I had to.” said Sherlock.

“Well you always manage to surprise me, then. Maybe you can play it back at the flat. You know, not for anyone else, if you don’t want to. Just me.”

Sherlock looked at him sidelong. 

“Please.” added John.

Sherlock hesitated and looked down at the footpath. “Yeah, alright.” He smiled and kept walking, looking down thoughtfully. 

Sherlock had seen the tear on John’s face before he had self-consciously blinked away a flood of them and wiped his face quickly, clearing his throat before tucking into dinner, pretending all was as it was. It caught Sherlock completely by surprise. He was used to being the one thoughtfully and clandestinely gazing into John for approval. Now the man was genuinely moved, and it left Sherlock wondering how admiration worked.

John kept a fond grip on the handle of Sherlock’s violin case, with a happy heart. He was genuinely glad to see Sherlock bloom with talents that hadn’t seen the light of day for a long time, hidden under a rock due to old wounds and redirected into a morality war with the whole world.

Even in the midst of making enemies as they did daily, there were moments that Sherlock existed outside that war and outside his head. Tonight, the light in his face while playing convinced John fully that such a man did, indeed, exist.  
But by its own fleeting nature, joy is a difficult thing to hold on to.

 

Three old men in leather jackets sat in the back of The Fenian and laughed after John and Sherlock had left. They lingered laughing, because The Network, what was left of it, socialised at this pub. And The Network, not being stupid, knew that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were sniffing around a dead rally car driver, and doing it in the most conspicuous manner possible, in beard-and-jumper Postcard Paddy disguises. To hard, cynical old murderers like these men, the effort seemed excruciatingly absurd.

“Right lads, d’we know where they’re going then?” said Murderer #1, letting his hard chuckling die down.

“Aye.” said Murderer #2. “Away t’ring aul Niall Flaherty and wake his boy Monday night.”

“Aye, and they’re away t’ring him now and meet up, I’d think.” said Murderer #3. “Sure, we can head t’Niall’s in a bit and have a wee nosey.”  
“Good job settin’ Niall’s card on the table. His lot’s Fianna Fall, five generations. Them’uns wouldn’t be caught dead here.” said #2.

They continued chuckling at the two seeming cartoon characters who had just left their pub, battering away at the jigs and reels. Only those completely innocent and clueless wouldn’t have noticed London’s two most noticeable detectives. Others did, but mostly because they thought it was just community support. 

Both parties decided they had gotten the clandestine end of the deal.

 

Sherlock and John caught a taxi up at the main road going back east toward Westminster. As they got in, Sherlock brought out his phone and rang the man on the card: Niall Ui Flaitheartig. Two rings, and an older man answered. “Hello?”

Sherlock put on his best Galway and Midlands accent, a soft singsong Irish broadcasting brogue that wasn’t the hard half-cockney of north Dublin or the Scottish twang of Northern Ireland. “Mister O’Flaherty. Firstly let me say I’m sorry for your trouble.”

“Well, thanks very much, he was our only boy. His mum is gutted. We’re still waiting for the hospital to release him.”

“My name is John Sheeran. I’m a fiddle player from Galway City and I was left your business card when I was playing session tunes tonight. Says here you need a wake done.” said Sherlock.

“Yes. We’re hoping desperately for Monday night, and that the police will be done with our poor Donal.” The voice on the line began to break. “That’s when all the family will be getting in.”

“We haven’t left Cricklewood yet. You mind if I stop in to get details? I’m just in the car now.” It was barely 8:30 in the evening, so Sherlock guessed that they would be willing to receive visitors.

“Certainly. Give the driver this address. 544 O’Donnell Crescent.”

“Cheers.” said Sherlock. “We’ll be round in about ten minutes.”

They got to the address in eight minutes, paid the driver, and walked up to the door of a well maintained gingerbread and stained glass semi-detached 3-bedroom with an east garden wall bursting with climbing roses. Their scent was heady in the summer evening, and mixed with sweet woodbine and fuschias on the other wall. Several seven-day saint candles flickered in the window behind the stained glass border.

John sneezed. “Uh oh. Forgot the clarityn.” He sniffed forlornly. Sherlock pulled out a fresh pocket handkerchief with a posh H monogram, and handed it to him. John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. “How retro.”

“Never left home without one. In my job you never know what sort of foul thing it’ll have to pick up.”

“Thanks. That’s the first compliment my bogies ever got.” John rolled his eyes, then emptied his sinuses aiming right for the embroidery. Sherlock reached up and rang the doorbell. 

“Whisht. Respect for the dead.” said Sherlock, looking at John from the corner of his eye as his friends’ nose rapidly began to redden. He half-smiled. 

“Since when have you had respect for the dead!” whispered John with a sarcastic huff.


	3. By the Skin of Their Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to Cricklewood to uncover facts, and end up with an epic gift from the Irish family they're helping. Unfortunately their political enemies decide to put John and Sherlock down with the IRA's new bullet, catching Mycroft's, and Stormont's, attention. Sherlock has to give John resuscitation before the ambulance arrives. (Use your imagination, kiddies.) Feels! This hits Sherlock a bit harder than he expects. John wakes up in the hospital worse for wear and gets enlightened. 
> 
> Epic Mycroft. I love how I've written him in this part. The man eats Sinn Fein for breakfast in one paragraph and kindly polishes Martin Mcgu- er, "Marvin Mccandless'" baldy head with a fail rag before putting the phone down. The perps who tried to use M's name to do McCandless' work get a stern warning, and one gets a ticket to Davy Jones' locker. Mycroft is doubly amused.

A set of footsteps thumped toward the door. It opened to reveal a warm, dimly lit and perfectly spitspot house with white leather furniture and beveled mirrors, and a short man at the door in his late forties.

“Come in, John, come in.” he said, addressing Sherlock by his pseudonym. He was also sniffling, but for different reasons.

Sherlock stepped in with his violin case and Watson behind him. They were still outfitted for their pub excursion and still in the glasses. Good impression, he thought. 

“I’m sorry for your trouble, Mr. O’Flaherty,” he repeated. “Your son was a decent, kind, respectable young man.” The accent suited Sherlock, who bandied it without effort; he could learn an entire language in a week. “I knew him from going to the pub time to time with me workmates.” Not suggesting any political affiliation was a good idea. 

“Och, tsk. It’s such a shame he never mentioned you.” said Niall. “Please sit down, I’ll put the kettle on. Oh,” he turned to John. “Who’s this?” Sherlock hadn’t introduced John yet with any pseudonym.

John introduced himself quickly. “Er, Sean Reilly” he answered. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Sean was Irish for ‘John’, so their pseudonyms were now John and John. How creative! thought Sherlock.

Tea. There was always tea to start with in Irish homes, night or day. Tea was the universal social icebreaker of the Isles, and Niall quickly came out of the kitchen with a tray, teapot, three mugs, milk and sugar. Niall sat down.

Sherlock figured that now was the time to bring out his leverage in clandestinely milking this poor soul for information. He went to open his violin case, and instead of bringing out his instrument he brought out a rolled document.

“Donal gave this to me for safe keeping, and I figured you would want this. It meant everything to him.” said Sherlock, and handed it to Niall.

Niall unrolled the certificate and gazed at it. He began to cry, probably for the hundredth time in the last two days. “I don’t believe it. You must have meant the world to him. Rallying was his passion, as it was once mine. Our car’s still in his auntie’s shed in Sligo.” he honked into his own handkerchief. John Watson joined him, his own eyes tearing up between allergies and the compassion that Sherlock was almost heartlessly manipulating to his advantage. 

“Donal left it to me because we had the same rallying instructor. I was trained out in Kerry twelve years ago by the same man. The best three weeks of my life.” said Sherlock. 

“Right.” said Niall. “You’re family then.” Uh oh, thought John, and looked at Sherlock with a puzzled expression. What does this mean? Niall left the room, quickly returned with a set of keys, and ceremoniously sat down. “The Escort is yours now.” John and Sherlock looked at each other incredulously.

Niall went on. “The Donegal rally runs in five weeks, I want you in it as a tribute to my son. He wasn’t a champion, but it’s our passion anyways. Maybe you can win it. She’s no looker but we put eight grand in that engine.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He took the keys, beaming. “We’d love to, and be honored to do it. I haven’t done the Donegal rally for work reasons, and the investment in a rally car I’m still building. This is brilliant. Donal’s memory demands nothing less. Nothing less.” exclaimed Sherlock, and pocketed the keys. John silently groaned. He knew Mycroft would insist on his attendance as well. Probably in the front seat of the car, no less. He could almost hear Mycroft: You watched my brother agree to this mad excursion, you can make sure he survives it, John. His hand migrated to his forehead and he closed his eyes.

“Now, about the wake.” said Niall. “How does nine o’clock sound? I’ll give you 300 quid for the night. Sod it, 400. You’re family.” He slapped Sherlock on the shoulder. 

“Well, before I gave you Donal’s cert, Niall…”

The doorbell rang. “Two minutes, John.” Niall stood up; he had had quite a few consolation calls at the door that day.

An older man, about 55, came in wearing a leather jacket and jeans. Niall was polite but looked less than pleased to see him. “Mr Sheeran,” he said, gesturing to Sherlock, “Jimmy Mcdonough. He was Donal’s part time employer up at the London docks.”

Mr. Mcdonough was entirely too friendly on shaking Sherlock’s hand, and smiled a bit too widely. Sherlock’s Danger Hackle, located just under his shirt collar, began to rise slowly. Mcdonough turned back to Niall. “So sorry for your trouble, Mr. O’Flaherty. Just let me know how we can help the family.” Niall knew this was a courtesy gesture and meant little else, but thanked him nonetheless. And taking assistance from Sinn Fein was at the bottom of his social list, deduced Sherlock. 

What gave away the affiliation was more than obvious. Easter lily pin on the coat collar, betting form in the pocket, fat wallet in the other pocket, half a badly rendered Bobby Sands tattoo on the right forearm, barely covered by the jacket sleeve. Sherlock could make out the dead MP’s jawline and smile in the artwork. 

Sherlock internally retched but kept perfect decorum. If John Watson’s British military background was serving him in any capacity, he’d be a little nervous right now. But Mcdonough kept a very friendly tone. 

“Ah, the Wake Man.” he said, looking at Sherlock’s violin case. “Your lot are the cornerstone of Irish tradition. My thanks go out to you, sir.” 

Sherlock nodded. “I do what I can for the community, and cornerstones of the community like Mr. O’Flaherty.” he said, carefully and quietly. Niall invited Mcdonough to sit down. 

“Oh, we’re out of tea,” said Niall. “I’ll get another pot for us.” he stood up, but Mcdonough quickly interjected. 

“Nonsense. You’re grieving, sir. Stay sittin’, ‘tis no bother.” Mcdonough quickly whisked the tray and its contents to the back kitchen, and they could hear the electric kettle beginning to boil again for another pot. 

Niall sighed. “I was saying there just before Jimmy rang the doorbell that we needed to arrange a time for you to arrive. I said 400 as well, right?”

Sherlock felt an urge to leave very quickly, but he kept his decorum. “Actually Niall, my mum had surgery for second stage cancer yesterday and she’s scheduled to be discharged on Monday night. I was about to tell you that as long as the wake was any other night, I’d be able to do it.”

Niall looked positively crestfallen, especially after such a meaningful exchange regarding the family’s rally car in Sligo. “But,” Sherlock added, “Donal meant the world to me and I have every intention of honoring your family in the Donegal rally by putting your dealership’s logo on the sides of the car as sponsor. Just get me the decals and it’s done.” said Sherlock. “And when it’s over, if the car’s still fine, I’ll bring it back on the Dublin car ferry to Holyhead and back here to you.”

Niall sighed. “It’s the engine we really made perfect, and if it’s on the telly with ours and Donal’s name on it, I’ll be happy enough.” 

Sherlock held out his hand. “No bother. It’d be an honour.”

John Watson cleared his throat. He had hackles up as well. He had no intention of butchering an Irish accent to blow their cover, as tenuous a cover as that was. He put on a cockney clip as London Irish instead. “She was expecting us at Barts over half an hour ago, John.”

“Oh right!” exclaimed Sherlock. “I am so sorry Mr. O’Flaherty. We have to go.” 

Just then, Mcdonough came back out with a full tea tray and four strong cups already poured. He handed them out to Watson, then Sherlock, then himself and Niall. “Don’t hurry out. Sure you’re just in.”

“It would be rude to forego one more cuppa.” said John. He quickly creamed his tea and tossed it back in two gulps. Sherlock sipped his and left most on the tray.

“I’ll have the car decals for you in a week,” said Niall. “I’m honestly so pleased, anyways. It was lovely to meet you.” the tears began to quietly return.

Sherlock and John stood up. “That’s us then,” said Sherlock, and they shook hands warmly with Niall, neutrally with Mcdonough, and left.

John didn’t say a word as Sherlock rang the taxi company. Sherlock pocketed his phone and stood on the main road at the end of the crescent. John remained silent as Sherlock brought out the escort keys and twirled them on his finger in victory.

John said nothing, however, even after the taxi picked them up. Only as they got to 221B and unlocked the door did he speak up.

“You’re a dickhead. What you did worked a charm, but I bloody well don’t like you all that much. He was grieving and you took full advantage.”

Sherlock sighed with a posh tsk. “Part of the work, John. You know that.”

John stomped up the stairs. “My bedside manner doesn’t agree with you Sherlock.” He threw off his cardigan onto the green pleather settee and stomped away to the bath to wash up for bed. Sherlock took off his cap and cardigan and put them in his closet, then returned to check his email in the sitting room.

Five minutes later, Sherlock heard an odd splashing from the loo. …explosive sickness, that wasn’t good. John had barely drunk anything. He raised his head up in concern from checking his laptop, and started to walk toward the bath. Just then he heard a body hit the floor and a head hit the door, and he scrambled in panic to wedge it open, to see John’s eyes closing and his neck going limp. 

Sherlock flung out his phone.

999 *send*

London Dispatch Recording Archive July 27

Hello, state your emergency  
It’s my friend. John Watson. 221B Baker Street. Someone gave him a drug in his drink I think. I’m not sure what happened. He’s just blacked out and his breathing is really shallow. Heartbeat very light and elevated. Get here soon he may be dying.  
221 B Baker Street? Do you need fire or medical?  
BLOODY HELL I SAID HE WAS DRUGGED I THINK HE’S DYING *static*  
Hang on. We’re dispatching an ambulance.   
Make sure it’s for St. Barts. John’s a doctor there.  
You mean Mr. Watson, the emergency?  
Yes. The emergency. Get here on the double. I’m putting the phone on speaker so I can get him out to the sitting room and administer CPR.  
The ambulance is on its way.  
………*static*  
John.  
John, stay with me. I was an idiot. It didn’t occur to me, I was too busy trying to get us out to realize. I am so sorry John. Just stay with me, they’ll get the tube down you in no time.   
That was stupid. I got what I needed but you’re not supposed to be the price, John. Bloody hell, stay with me. Stop this at once, right? Keep breathing. Are you breathing? I’m going to go unlock the door. Please keep breathing.   
*sounds of running downstairs, door opening, sounds of running upstairs*  
Come on John. I don’t know how long those two blokes had before they died. Toxicology was supposed to tell me day after tomorrow. Twenty minutes, two hours, I don’t know. But now it’s you and I can’t…no. Don’t do this John. Please don’t do this. Please don’t die.   
Hello, are you still on  
Yes. Yes. Is the ambulance coming.  
They should be there within 5 minutes.  
Right…how did this happen…beer? No, too long between pub and home. Tea?…tea…tea. Not Niall. No motive. Had no idea who we were. Had to be Mcdonough. What can’t be tasted. If it were cyanide he’d already be dead. Couldn’t be cyanide, too toxic. Had to be small. Nearly tasteless. Lethal dose before you can taste it. Easily transported. Legal. Easily obtained. BLOODY HELL. DIAZEPAM. DISPATCH! TELL THE EMERGENCY TECHNICIANS TO BRING A STOMACH PUMP AND ANTIDOTE. THIS MAN WAS DOSED WITH AT LEAST 500 MILLIGRAMS OF DIAZEPAM.  
*static* John. John? I don’t know if you can hear me. You were given diazepam in your tea. Bastard Mcdonough. He must have seen us down the pub. We have to be more careful. They’ll be here soon John.   
London dispatch, checking to see if you’re still with us  
Yes, of course. I’m here. His…his eyes aren’t dilating. I’m about to…to administer CPR. I can’t feel his breath. Bloody hell. Don’t die, John. If you die you can piss off. Oh here goes. *static* One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, *static*….one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, *static* ….one, two…  
They should be there any time now.  
All right. …One, two, three, four, five, six…  
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK  
GET IN AND UPSTAIRS THE DOOR IS OPEN. GET IN NOW. JOHN IS DYING.  
*sounds of footsteps coming upstairs* London emergency.  
*sound of equipment bag hitting the floor* Alright, let’s get him on the cot and an oxygen vent-

-end dispatch record-

 

The EMTs lifted John on his cot and carefully maneuvered him down the stairs of 221B and out to the ambulance. Sherlock nabbed his cardigan with every intention of hopping into the ambulance, but the EMT stopped him. “Right mate, he’ll be well sorted now.”

“RUBBISH. I WORK FOR SCOTLAND YARD, HE’S MY FRIEND.”

“Calm down, e’ll be fine. If it was diazepam like you say, he’s on a breathing system to keep his lungs going and by proxy his ‘eart. The antidote’s waiting at the hospital for him. You’ll need to make a police statement, so if you could get in within the hour, we won’t send them round. Alright?”

“WHY?!”

“If you know what caused this then the police will need to have a word.”

“Call Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard at once. He’s my friend and he’ll sort it.”

“You’ll need to do that, sir. We need to stabilise this man’s life signs.”

“GET ON WITH IT THEN.” Sherlock whirled round and threw himself on the settee, with his head in his hands. 

As soon as he heard the door shut downstairs, he began to shake quietly with rage and relief. Mrs. Hudson came in just as the ambulance left and headed toward Oxford Street. She came upstairs quickly to see Sherlock curled into his hands, shoulders shaking. In a flash, without any fear of Sherlock’s usual imposing standoffishness, she dropped her shopping bag and sat next to him, her arm tight round his shoulder. 

“Oooh dear, what’s the matter.” she kissed Sherlock’s curly head as he kept shaking. 

“John got poisoned while we were out tonight. I think he’ll be fine.” 

“Oh heavens. Oh no.” Mrs Hudson squeezed tighter, and rubbed his back. He kept his face behind his fist, trying to hold it in, but her comfort didn’t do any good. He sobbed for a good five minutes, while she held him tightly.

He took a deep breath and gathered himself. “Are you all right, love?” asked Mrs Hudson.

“Alright now. I have to go to Barts immediately. Um…”

“Yes love?”

“Is it possible you could clean the loo?”

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” She gave his shoulders a big squeeze, rubbed his back one more time, kissed his head and went downstairs.

Well, he’s been willing to go to jail with me. I suppose it’s the least I can do…ugh. Sherlock cheered up at the return of his cynical senses, and permitted himself a smile. He took a deep breath and went to change back out of what seemed to him silly brogues and corduroys to his usual sober, dark and stoic suit, to head to Barts behind John.

With a serious headache.

 

John woke up sixteen hours later with the worst sore throat of his life. Bloody hell. Gak. Bleh. The lights of the window were entirely too bright and he squinted his eyes open. I feel as flabby and red raw as an arse after dysentery. His filters were not on yet, so he said the first thing that came into his mind.

“Fk’nell. Bleh. Mouth. Fart.”

The dozing occupant of the chair by his bed snapped his head straight up. “What?!” asked Sherlock.

“What the …hell… happened?!”

“Well, you got sick, fell on the floor, I rang 999, dragged you to the sitting room, waited for an ambulance, and administered CPR till they could get an oxygen vent and antidote here.”

“Wait…”

“It was Mcdonough. He poisoned you, and it’s a bloody good thing your Walther is in the lockbox you bought after that time I got bored.”

“Right. Bloody good thing. Mouth tastes like a fart.” John’s filters were still off and he was still coming round, but Sherlock jumped right into the major revelation next to the bedside, animatedly describing the situation. 

“Well, he poisoned both of us. I’m 20 kilos heavier than you at least and only took a sip of that tea. After I got in to make the police statement, I passed out on the floor in here and processed about 50 milligrams of diazepam.”

“Diaze…fuck.” John was coming round now. Filters, not so much.

“You got 500 milligrams.” said Sherlock.

“FUCK.” said John. “Wait…” he lifted and waved his hand shakily.

“What?” said Sherlock.

“You administered CPR?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“OH. Thank you for saving my life, Sherlock. Thank you. What about that gratitude you lecture me about all the time to save me from social adversity? It doesn’t matter! Sherlock’s mouth breathed for mine because I was DYING. Don’t tell anyone.” He threw himself in a petulant strop back into the chair next to John’s bed.

“Look. Sorry. I didn’t mean…oh forget it. Sorry.” Then John really began to become lucid. “Oi. Who died for two BLOODY years?”

They were both quiet. Sherlock was silent and sullen. He breathed and rubbed his hands together. Sherlock knew he was being petulant, but John knew he had poked a very raw spot in Sherlock’s inner being. 

“Sorry.”.. “Sorry.” They both said it at the same time, and then sighed. 

“Well, there is one good thing about this.” said Sherlock.

“What?”

“When toxicology tells me that those two men died of diazepam and not cyanide, we’ll also know the bastards who did it. Now all we need to know, is why.”

“Well, yes. There is that.” said John. “Now do you have any mint roll? My mouth tastes like a fart.”

Sherlock dug into his pocket and whipped out a roll of Mentos. “I had the same problem when I woke up a while ago,”

“Cheers.” said John, and popped three of them. “And…thanks for not getting bored long enough to be here when I woke up. I think that would have been a bit scary.”

“No problem, John. I need you with me when we go to Cardiff on Monday.”

“Wait. Cardiff?! I have to work next week.”

“Apparently not. Your boss is giving you the week off while the police determine that you aren’t suicidal. Mycroft will have a chat with someone and sort it, but you should have heard him roar at me for poking the IRA.”

“Oh god. You mean the IRA were the ones responsible for poisoning me. Is that what you’re BLOODY saying?”

“Diazepam. It’s the new bullet since the peace agreement in 1998. Didn’t you know?” Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in teasing inquisitiveness. “Don’t worry. They never use the same technique twice. And we should be right as long as nobody sees us in a republican bar again.” he said. “Not that I mind. I got what I needed.” He pulled the rally car keys out of his pocket, and Niall’s home number.

“Here, do you think Niall would have been told who we were, if Mcdonough knew?”

“Niall would have supported us all the more. He wants to know what happened to his son. I’ll be able to tell him after we put the pieces together at the Donegal rally in two weeks.”

“Oh, god. I knew I’d be coming with you to that. Sherlock, where will I find the time for that?! London, of course. Cardiff, yes. But Ireland? With danger involved.” …Alright, he answered himself. 

“You always find time. And you can always play up.” said Sherlock.

“Doctors don’t ‘play up’, Sherlock.” John sighed. “All right, I guess we could use a change of scenery if I have an involuntary two week hiatus.”

 

Later that day, an orderly came in to give John a psychological assessment before the department discharged him. He chuckled. He answered as normally and cheerfully as possible, but told her that he’d probably be somewhat off-kilter and a bit traumatised for two to three weeks. When she asked what kind of drug he ingested, he told her he was at an Irish bar where he got slipped a really big Mickey, and that Sherlock deduced just how big a Mickey it was, because he was Sherlock Holmes.

Deadpan.

She turned bright red and tilted her head, and walked out biting her bottom lip. She reads the British tabloids too, he thought. Oh well, a little fun never hurt anyone.

 

“OI. Sherlock. I ‘ear tell you went off looking in the right place.” Lestrade had rung the doorbell and Mrs Hudson had let him in, looking inquisitive. She went off to make tea while the DI went upstairs, chatting to Holmes as he came up. He was holding the toxicology report Sherlock had needed to determine cause of death on the 2 men in the morgue. 

It was Saturday afternoon, and John had been discharged the previous evening. John and Sherlock were both looking a bit the worse for wear, still in bathrobes and slippers, sunk into their chairs.

“Inside voice, please” quietly croaked John, taking a sip of his tea and nursing a raw head. The chafing in his throat from the various breathing and stomach apparatus he had to put up with at the hospital the day before had not made him chatty at all. 

Sherlock sighed and looked up at Lestrade. “I suppose your lecture is coming, is it?”

“No, Sherlock. Truth is, I admire you. Nobody my generation would set foot near even the old IRA. They came out the woodwork after the peace agreement but even an ‘ard man would palpitate at the thought of facing them. You’re a special breed, I’ll give you that.”

“I didn’t exactly expect anyone to be up to murdering us with a cup of tea.” said Sherlock. “I hope the toxicology report points to diazepam, because you’ll have your man if it is.”

“Beyond a doubt. Along with alcohol, but there it is.” said Lestrade, pulling open the paper and pointing at the positive result. “Who exactly is your man?”

“Owner of a small time importer down on the docks, Jimmy Mcdonough. Contraband Polish cigarettes, obviously. He tried to do us in with tea at the home of a man named Niall O’Flaherty. Who, by the way, shouldn’t be questioned. It’s his boy lying dead in the Barts morgue.”

“You mentioned in your report yesterday, but you were a bit too out of it for us to get specific details. How did you get into the middle of that?!” said Lestrade. 

“You don’t exactly show up with a DI’s badge at an Irish home and expect the full story, do you. I had to play a few jigs and reels.” said Sherlock. 

“Well if you needed proof that you two are way too recognisable, it should be now.” said Lestrade. “You were a joke to those old boys, and they had their fun.” Mrs Hudson came in with the tea tray. “You can bet that bloke Mcdonough is on a boat probably back in Ireland by now, and all we can do is inform the Irish government and sit on our asses. Thanks for giving him the warning.” He looked disgusted.

Lestrade took a cup of tea and sat on the green settee, and sighed deeply. “Of course since it’s IRA we probably won’t do anything anyway.” he said, more to himself. “Those lads were involved in criminal work to begin with, so their assets will just get confiscated, they’ll be released to their families and that bloke will stay on the lam.” said Lestrade. 

“I don’t think Donal was a criminal.” said Sherlock.

“Why?” asked Lestrade.

“I think he was asked to do something criminal and had second thoughts.” said Sherlock. “The cyanide was meant for me to think Moriarty had something to do with this, when in fact it was the IRA trying to put me off the scent.”

“Over cigarette smuggling?”

“No. Something more important.”

“What would that be?” asked Lestrade, curiously.

“Bet fixing on a major car rally. Donal’s a rally driver.” Sherlock said, looking over his teacup. “And so was the older man who died the same time, Robert Reid. He won the Donegal Rally back in 1982 and went on to ruin his future being IRA neutral and easy to buy off. Owns three betting shops in Cricklewood. Or co-owns them, I should say. He must have decided to do the right thing along with Donal, ditch the ra altogether, flee to Spain with their buyoff money, and paid the price.”

“Who else co-owns them?”

“Family. Cousins, uncles, brothers. The usual.” said Sherlock flippantly.

“Well, I suppose that’s us then. Respectable or not, Donal’s probably not going to get any justice after working for that lot. The rest of the problem lies across the pond, and they can prosecute it there. My department got over 240 grand in confiscated criminal assets from those two.

“Mcdonough’s getting the charge on your word, and we’ve got no leads on his whereabouts. Thanks for your help anyhow.” Lestrade sighed. “But the cyanide thing really annoys me. That’s ‘ard core. It was meant to put you off the culprits and blame our favourite criminal mastermind.” He put down his cup of tea on the tray, and smiled sidelong at Sherlock.

“…I wonder what he thinks of them using his name like that.” 

“I wonder indeed.” said Sherlock, absentmindedly stroking his upper lip.  
\----

In the middle of the evening the previous night, what they did not know was that a fishing vessel was chased down and boarded by a sleek yacht that sliced through the water faster than a sheik’s blade. Jimmy Mcdonough was made to tell the name of the party who had provided the cyanide, (a small time Russian gun dealer). Mcdonough was then promptly shot in the head, chained to eight cinder blocks and shoved off the side of the fishing boat. 

As his pallid body sank underneath the water twelve miles off the Isle of Man, the other two on the boat were strictly told to deliver a message to their boss when they got in:

“Don’t try to shift the heat again. I will not take responsibility for sloppy work. Retirement is your best option. –M”

Sunday came and went. On Monday morning, at 2 AM, a black Lexus pulled up to the side entrance of Stormont Castle in South Belfast, and the halls echoed with the relentless yapping, droning rage of retired IRA heavyweight Marvin Mccandless barking monotonously down a telephone line at Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft Holmes listened to Mccandless yammering about “bad form”, “police harassment”, and “undue blame”. He was using the book of sundry buzzwords, playing victim to the hilt. 

Mccandless should have known better. This was Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft sat in his dressing gown while Mccandless was harping away on his speakerphone, and acknowledging with various grunts. 

First, he listened. Then, he toyed with his pen. Then, he drew lots of funny faces on the backs of envelopes; rediscovered his desk zen garden and raked it, launched about twenty rubber bands at various office portraits (finally getting Her Majesty the Queen squarely in her nose), found the yo-yo in his desk drawer, practiced his backspin, walked the dog, and toyed with his pen once more, and finally drew a big bald angry-looking phallus wearing a black balaclava as a hat. 

When Mccandless finally tired, Mycroft spoke once. “Marvin, I sympathise with your frustration, really I do. However if your minor goons in London put themselves in the way of my brother again by being so stupid, I will simply laugh at you. They really do have no excuse. 

He looked at his perfectly trimmed nails, eyebrows raised as high as possible, and went on. “What I do expect is your full cooperation. Thanks to your boys’ antics garnering his attention, my brother will be in the Donegal rally representing the family of the young man your goons put down. He will be there to sniff out the big players, and that’s his game. The best thing you can do is avoid him entirely, and keep the course clean and free from sabotage, or you are in immense trouble with me specifically. You will send me a map of his safe areas, I will give it to him, and you will adhere to it religiously.

“And, you also know who will watch you now for his own reasons. I think you annoyed him. I find this all quite amusing, of course.”

There was a speechless squeak from the end of the line.

“My dear Marvin, everyone who doesn’t agree with you is a reprehensible racist. We all know this. I am at peace with this. Just do as I tell you. 

“If opposing your various leftover goons makes us anti-Irish racists, then the eighty-two percent of the Irish Republic’s voters who don’t vote for your party are anti-Irish racists. This, of course is as ridiculous an idea as confronting me over things that are obviously caused by stupidity on your end. Good NIGHT, Deputy First Minister.”

In the middle of another barking fit on the Stormont end, he pressed the phone button to cut the line off, and rose to go back to bed.


End file.
